Maleficence
by surrealgreen
Summary: 7 years after the move, the Sons of Ipswich have moved on with their lives--when an old enemy brings a new evil into their lives, can they survive? Slash, Caleb/Pogue, established relationship. will be Pogue-centric, but all of the boys are important.
1. The Doing of Evil or Harm

Summary: Set 7 years after the movie (yes, that makes it a future fic, and I'm guessing what life will be like in the future—not too different from now), the Sons of Ipswich have settled into their lives. But an old enemy leads a new evil to them, one more powerful than they've ever faced before. Can they survive? Pogue-centric, but all the boys will be important. If you've already read this prologue, you'll see that I reposted. Tried to add in more detail and make this chapter flow better; let me know if it's too florid, okay?

Warnings: future-fic, character death (sorry Chase fans), creepy baddy, slash (Caleb/Pogue), established relationship. This storyline will be plot-based, not pure porn; that being said, there probably will be scenes where Caleb and Pogue kiss, make-out, maybe even have sex (haven't decided yet). So if you have a real problem with slash, you may not want to read this story.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Covenant, and if I owned the boys, I'd be too busy doing naughty things to them to write. Except Chase, he creeps me out—I'd probably sell him on e-bay. Heinrich Kramer is based off of a real person, the man who co-wrote the Malleus Malificarum—basically the 'How to Hunt Witches for Dummies' book that helped set off the witch hunts and inquisition of the medieval ages. However, that is all I know about him. I do not know if he looked like or if he was liked, and I somehow doubt he was a sorcerer.

Prologue

_Maleficence: __the doing of evil or harm_

_Cologne, Germany 1489—_

Heinrich Kramer swept through the chilly halls of the prison, long dark cloak flaring like deathly wings behind him, a stark contrast to his white robes. The guards stepped out of his way, bowing their head in deference to the blackfriar (1). _Visionary_, they whispered; _torturer_, they muttered; _God's Hound_, they breathed. They always spoke in a whisper because even the most pious priest, the most sadistic torturer, the most blood-thirsty fanatic, feared Kramer—though they dare not admit it and inadvertently confess to a guilty heart.

To Kramer, the drab grey walls and sullen robes, the scent of blood and bile and fear that clung to the stone and defined the holding cells where accused witches and heretics languished, was the scent of possibilities. And today, one of those possibilities was to come true, for among the huddled men and women who shivered in fear, there was a magic user. He could practically taste the power that the witch held tight, hidden under a mask of normality, of helplessness. It was hard to describe magic in conventional terms, words created by people who knew nothing of what magic truly was. It could not be sensed through mundane means—not smelled, or tasted, or seen, or heard, or felt, though those were the terms so often used to describe the indescribable. But, for those with the sixth sense, it was no less real than the sound of desolate weeping or coppery tang of blood that permeated the air. On the surface, Kramer was grim and sober, as suited his position—God's hound come to hunt down evil-doers; on the inside he smiled an exhilarated grin, the hunter's blood pumping adrenaline when prey is cornered.

Kramer did not always appear so dour; like any good predator he was a chameleon, able to blend in whenever needed. He knew his audience and schooled his face so that they saw the person he wanted them to see, the person they expected to see. He's survived for centuries this way, becoming a different person whenever it suited him; at first, it had been difficult having to leave his lives behind, never letting himself get close to another person. But over time, he'd grown stronger, colder, started to see people for the weak and vulnerable game they truly were, living their pitiful lives, allowing the tall grasses of the savannah to hide from them the lion crouching mere feet away. His square, plain face could be that of a kindly uncle or an imposing authority figure, a scholar or a craftsman, a lord or a commoner, a sinner or a saint. The solemn, sour visage of a priest was not the most enjoyable role he had ever played (priests just had _no _fun), but it was one of the most profitable. In no other role had he been able to find so many witches and wizards to feed his dark addiction to magic, to the power.

When he descended the stairwell into the cool underground chambers, the scent of magic grew stronger. Kramer followed it to the inquisition room, better described as a torture chamber; he knew it was filled with the standard tools of the trade—whips and chains, the rack, the pear, the iron maiden; none of it necessary for him, of course, but occasionally amusing to use. The equipment was lovingly cared for by the many assistants that helped run the prison, better care than either the prisoners, or the areas used to contain them, received. After all, if seeing a pool of blood left by a predecessor helped encourage a prisoner to confess sooner, then it was a useful tool. The blood other bodily fluids added to the environment of degradation and terror. The guards outside the door, slumped over in boredom after hours of standing in a secure hallway, stood up with a sharp snap as they saw Kramer. He just gave them a thin smile and ignored their insolent laziness, drank in their fear. He had bigger things to worry about today than terrorizing guards grown complacent in the belief that they could never become prisoners themselves. The door to the little room swung open and that scent, that taste, that _indescribable_ feeling of magic rolled out like the tide.

With a quick shake of his head Kramer dismissed the thickly muscled "interrogator" who had been working the witch over with hot irons. And it was a witch. Now that he was in the room, there was no mistaking the sweet, pure, musky flavor of primal power; more raw and wild than the carefully focused energies of a wizard.

The witch was female, and quite beautiful. Witches, male or female, _always _seemed to be beautiful, their forms forced into pleasing molds by the raw fury of nature that was as intrinsic to them as the color of their eyes. Sometimes their beauty was a strength, as they drew others to them like honey. But beauty also engenders envy, particularly in a world taken over by denunciations; when people would accuse others of witchcraft in hopes of saving their own lives. It was magnificent: the hysteria, the hatred born of fear, the blood-thirst from self-preservation. The whole of Europe was turning on itself, devouring limbs whole in hopes of escaping a trap it created. The beautiful, the strange, the insular, the gifted—they soon found themselves sacrificed by their more mundane neighbors in a vain attempt to appease the monster that the inquisition had become.

Even chained to the wall, covered in torn rags, dirt, and her own blood, the witch was a sight to behold. A gypsy, if Kramer guessed right, with smooth, dusky skin and hair so dark it seemed to absorb light. She was curvy and muscular in the way of gypsy women, who worked hard alongside their men. It was no surprise she'd been accused—the pale, rosy-cheeked local bourgeoisie women who worked so hard to keep their hands and skin soft and dainty, their forms feminine, must have been green with envy when this little gypsy, dark and muscular with calloused hands and homespun clothes, outshone them all. Her large, dark eyes and full mouth, offset by a small, stubborn chin, were gave Kramer a venomous glare.

Her magic was tangy and musky and salty and warm and herbal; an Earth witch. Through her veins ran the power to succor the masses, or to shake the Earth, creating chasms and tremors and eruptions of the Earth's core fire. And yet she allowed herself to be tortured, to be burned and whipped and hit and worse; would allow herself to die, all to protect her coven. She would not dare prove her accusers true and risk drawing the inquisitors to her coven, nor would she use and draw her coven out of hiding to protect her. Witches were delicious prey, so powerful, and yet so weak.

"Hello my dear. Would you like to confess your sins?" He spoke in a kindly tone, as if he actually wanted to forgive her, to let her go.

"I have no sins to confess for your God." She spoke boldly, but was betrayed by the tremor in her voice.

"That really is too bad."

"I have not had 'congress with the devil'. I have never cast spells to harm others. I am not what you think I am." Brave little witch.

"On the contrary, my dear," he replied, walking toward her slowly, sensually. "You are exactly what I think you are, little witch." He dropped his voice so that by the time he was behind her, pressed against her back, he was whispering in her ear. "_Do you know what I am?_"

He heard her gasp of fear, felt her warm, compact body tense as she realized what she was trapped with, and it filled him with a darkling lust. He ached for her fear.

"Sorcerer!" She breathed in an accusing tone, as if the word itself were a curse. To her, it probably was.

"You do know me." Kramer leaned forward and smelled her hair; even under the sweat and dirt, it retained a sweet scent—she used lavender in her hair. "But are you ready for me? Is your coven?"

"They are long gone by now. You'll never find them." Ah, Earth witches. So stoic and calm, but so protective! They would destroy the world to protect their covens, and failing to save their little families—there was_ no_ greater torture. Kramer briefly considered keeping her alive until he could find her coven, letting her see them die, but he was too greedy, and she may be right; the coven may have already fled the area. Oh, it would hurt them to do so, but they would know that staying risked them all. No use letting this little tidbit go to waste. It would be in character for an Earth witch to kill herself rather than be used against her coven, now that she knew what he was.

Out in the hall, even the most jaded of guards and inquisitors shuddered when the screams started.

* * *

New York City, USA, 2010—

_It should have been mine_. That thought ran through Chase's mind over and over and over again. It should have been, should-have-been, shouldhavebeen. Everything that Caleb had, all of it. The respect of people for no more reason than his name; the old money that would open doors in a way that was _almost_ magic itself; power and knowledge offered by the book of damnation and that old wizard that served the families. And _the coven_.

Caleb was the leader of coven because he was the oldest; only, Chase was _really_ the oldest. Caleb was the coven's golden boy, the favored son, because he was the most powerful, the Earth witch, a natural born leader; but Chase was an Earth witch, too, and easily as powerful as Caleb. If Chase had been born in Ipswich, born into the Coven, it all would have been his: Tyler's shy admiration and soft, pale skin; Reid's piquant rebellion and smart, sensual mouth; Pogue's unflinching devotion and pretty eldritch eyes. And he would have been more to them than some know-it-all big brother. He would have used his coven as it was meant to be used, and they would have had so much power. Power enough to overcome their greatest weakness, the aging. Power enough that nothing could have stopped them. But, no—an accident of birth had given it all to Caleb. Limpid, weak, good-two-shoes, _pathetic, _boy-scout _**Caleb**_.

And despite being born into the wrong family, despite everything that had held him back from his deserved destiny, he almost had it. He'd almost had Caleb, forced the other boy to will him his powers. And it would have been his! The coven would have rebelled and fought him, but with Caleb gone they would have needed a leader, and none of them were suited. Reid had the will but not the wisdom, Pogue the wisdom but not the will, and Tyler—Tyler had neither. Each was powerful in his own way, but without Caleb to hold them together they would have been vulnerable, for none was an Earth witch; even unascended, it was obvious that none of the others had the mindset of the Earth—Reid was too impulsive, Pogue too wild and untamed, and Tyler was too soft. And Earth witches were almost invariably the leaders of their covens, the alphas. Without Caleb, the others would have been ripe for plucking, like plums so juicy even the slightest pressure of teeth against thin, bitter skin would break through, bursting free the sweet meat trapped within.

Oh, Pogue might have presented a problem. His devotion to Caleb went far beyond friendship or even family, and he would not have willingly accepted Chase; but with Caleb's power added to Chase's already considerable abilities, breaking Pogue would have been easy enough. Fun, even—after all, hurting Pogue to get to Caleb had been surprisingly satisfying. It had been the first time he'd used power to hurt someone face to face. In the past he set traps, arranged accidents, poisoned. But with Pogue, he'd used his powers to enhance his own strength, then broke the other boy down with his own hands. The younger boy had barely even been injured in the crash, his power, quick reflexes, and helmet protecting him; a pristine canvas on which to paint dark art. The impact of Chase's fists on Pogue's flesh; the gasps of pain that deteriorated into muffled moans as bones broke and organs ruptured; Pogue's whisky crying out in agony —had been every bit as addictive as the power. Then the coup de grace, using his power to block Pogue's own, leaving him unable to heal his injuries. Leaving him vulnerable and frail, so he would be unable to resist when Caleb willed Chase his power. So addictive that a mere hour later, he'd used the power to throw Caleb around Sarah's little dorm room, reveled in the sound of his body hitting the walls with bruising force. He'd tried to beat Caleb until he willed his power away, when it may have been more effective to simply threaten Sarah until Caleb had ascended. That final battle had not been necessary. Sarah was already in Chase's grasp, and Caleb would not have been able to save her if Chase had decided to end things. Simple stopping Sarah's heart until Caleb willed his powers away would likely have been far more effective than the fight. It just wouldn't have been as fun. A miscalculation that cost him everything.

And it would have been his! Reid and Tyler would have fallen into line quickly with Caleb dead and Pogue broken. Neither boy appeared particularly close to the eldest, and Reid would have much preferred Chase's brand of leadership; no goody-two-shoes, condescending warnings against using, no orders to pretend to be lesser than he was, to be normal. And where Reid went, Tyler would follow. Once Pogue was cowed into submission, the two younger witches would readily follow Chase (2). But no; William Danvers had to interfere, to break the covenant—and the hypocrites lauded him for the same act for which they damned Chase's line.

It had been bitter, having to hide. Having to fake his death and run away. But there was no point in going after Caleb now that they were evenly matched. And he doubted the other members of the coven would have been foolhardy enough to face him one-on-one. Reid was ruthless enough and Pogue pragmatic enough that they would have had no problem ganging up on Chase, and Tyler was enough of a team player that it would never occurred to him to fight Chase alone. No, Caleb was the only one proud enough to try and take Chase out on his own. But it had been bitter, bitter as gall.

But it was not over. It had been 2 years of research; long enough for the coven to fully ascend, to forget about him, to move one. But it was _not over_—Chase had found it, found the answer. Henry Kramer, wizard extraordinaire. Most people only knew him as a financial wizard, the man who took Wall Street by storm in the late 80's. But Chase's research told him that Kramer was a _real_ wizard, which likely had much to do with his financial success. And rumor had it that Kramer had a spell that allowed him to steal powers from others—a spell that circumvented that annoying need to have his victim will him powers. With that spell Chase could take what he wanted from whomever he wanted.

A less arrogant witch would have worried about confronting Kramer, but Chase was sure of himself, sure that his power combined with that of his father, was more than enough to take any wizard. Wizards were skilled magic users, but could not compare to the raw natural power of a witch. Wizards drew their power mostly from mystical objects imbued with their own magic—herbs and gems and other foci. Without a focus or carefully crafted words and runes, wizards could do little. Witches drew power from themselves, their life-source—power they were born with. Wizards required preparation and study to affect their spells; witches worked magic by will-power alone, as fast as thought. Given enough time, a wizard might be able to store up enough spells to defeat a natural witch, but Chase didn't intend to give Kramer that time.

He'd surprise the wizard, do whatever was necessary to break him, and force him to tell Chase the spell. Witches rarely used spells, but that didn't mean they couldn't. He would return to Ipswich and use the spell against Caleb. No more intimidation, no more calling him out, no more duels. He'd surprise Caleb, quit and dirty. Incapacitate him before he could use that power he'd inherited from his father, and use the wizard's spell to rip all that power out, leaving nothing behind but an empty shell. After that, the other members of the coven would have no choice but to recognize him, ascended or not.

Kramer lived in a Manhattan penthouse suite located in a monstrosity of brick and stone that cost a fortune. The security sucked, though. One guard, likely a failed wanna-be policeman who was easily enough incapacitated, was all that separated the big, bad world from the wealthy elite who called the building home. In a matter of moments Chase left the elevator to enter the opulent apartment that took up the entire top floor. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with texts both ancient and new; the furniture was large and masculine, placed haphazardly around the lofty apartment; the walls were panel wood. Chase wondered from room to room, too eager for the upcoming fight to appreciate the opulently thick carpet or the tasteful art on the walls, until he came to a study dominated by a large stone fireplace. A leather chair placed in front of the fire held what could only be Henry Kramer.

Kramer was a decrepit old bastard, 80 if he was a day. His thick hair was as white as snow, his skin wrinkled and thin as old parchment, and he hunched over in a dried, shriveled manner. But his eyes were a keen, piercing blue, and he stared at Chase with amusement.

"Hello, young man. You know, polite people call before they drop by."

Chase gritted his teeth in irritation. Was the old man senile? Who greets an intruder so calmly? Or did the wizard just not realize what Chase was? Maybe he had spells he thought would be able to handle the average robber.

"I want one of your spells."

"Spells? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play games, old man. I know what you are." Chase made to step toward Kramer, but found he could not move. No muscle below his neck so much as budged. He could feel them as firm as they had been only moments before, but he could no longer control them.

Chase's eyes turned black as he turned the power on the old man. The apartment shuddered and the force he'd sent against the wizard tumbled books and furniture, but not a hair on Kramer's head moved. Anger surged through the witch's frame and he pushed again, but this time the power backlashed through his own body, setting nerves on fire and bruising bone and flesh.

"Aaargghh!" Chase let out a strangled cry of surprise and pain.

"And what exactly do you think I am?" The old man who, moments before, had seemed a kindly fool—Dumbledore in NY—suddenly seemed sinister.

"You're a wizard," Chase ground out, quivering inside as he fought the spell that held both his body and his magic captive.

Kramer stood with an ease that belied his apparent age and walked toward Chase slowly.

"Oh no, young witch; I am much more dangerous than that. I am a sorcerer."

"Same thing!"

Kramer gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes. "Kids these days. No education, no sense of history.

A sorcerer, son, is, like a witch; only instead of having full access to the power, we are born with one spell, our red spell (3). We absorb. We are the jackals among the gazelles, the wolves in sheep's clothing. I can take power from any other magic user and add it to my own. Oh, I see you knew this? Let me guess, you thought it was some conjurer's spell? No, it's much more than that. Like the magic you do, my power is based on will and intrinsic to who I am. Its much less easy to use, unfortunately. You see everyone, even the talentless mundanes, have walls and boundaries that protect their innermost selves; their souls. I have to break them down before I take your power."

"No! You can't!" For the first time, Chase felt a frisson of fear break through his greed and envy.

"Why-ever not? I mean, I usually have to hunt your kind down, but when one so kindly walks into my home, who am I to turn down a free meal? That would just be rude." As he spoke Kramer trailed around Chase, taking him in with a predatory smile. He moved with a grace that belied his frail appearance, and raised a hand to run it through Chase's curly hair, testing the texture.

"Don't touch me!"

"You're in no position to make demands, my dear." Kramer crossed in front of his captive and let his hand trail around to cup his cheek, running his thumb over full lips. If Chase had been a more empathetic person, it would have occurred to him that this must have been what Caleb and Pogue felt when he targeted them; but, then, if he had been capable of empathy, he wouldn't have targeted them in the first place. He wouldn't have targeted the helpless looking old man who turned out to be a deadly foe.

"I…I can give you more!"

"And you will," Kramer replied, leaning close to taste the young witch's full mouth. Such soft lips for such a foul-mouthed young man. Sexual intimidation and torture was not a necessary part of what he did, but it was so effective. A strong man might resist torture for days, but most crumbled at even the threat of rape. Besides, he enjoyed it—and a man should enjoy his work. It made life worth living.

"I mean others—4 other witches. A coven. Let me go and I'll tell you where they are, all about them." Once he was free of this spell, he could take Kramer out and find a better way to go after the coven.

"But that's the beauty of it—you'll tell me anyway. Once I devour your soul, I'll know all about your little coven, and anything else you know." Those blue husky eyes stared in lust—bloodlust, or regular old lust, or both. "You'll become a part of me, live on in me. It really is a beautiful thing. You just can't appreciate it yet."

"You know," the old man whispered conspiratorially, "most witches these days believe that it was the regular humans that hunted them to near extinction, but the truth is that it was me, and people like me. Once we have one member of a coven, we know all about the others; their powers, how they think, how they move—and it's only a matter of time before we find them. We are the perfect predators." Kramer took a brutal kiss, tearing tender lips with his teeth. Chase's eyes widened in true fear, at last, as he realized he would not survive the night.

Hours later the Chase Collins, AKA Chase Goodwin Pope, lay dead, a withered old man. Henry Kramer, once known as Heinrich Kramer, stood over his body, young and vibrantly alive. He had taken on the appearance of the young witch; short, curly hair, softly rounded cheeks, cleft chin, and intense eyes. A very useful spell he'd taken off a real wizard decades ago. Kramer was not a vain man, but it was nice to be young and handsome. He laughed giddily, reminded of the sheer joy of youth, and reveled in his new powers. It had been so long since he took a witch. Like any big game hunter, he was saddened by the clear knowledge that his preferred prey was being hunted to oblivion, without ever intending to give up the hunt himself.

It didn't take Kramer long to grab a few bonds and precious jewels from the safe hidden in his apartment. He took the clothes off his victim (the old-man clothes he owned no longer suited him) and used his stolen power to move an ember from the fireplace onto the floor beside the body. The thick rug quickly caught fire, and before long the entire suite was in flames. Kramer slipped out the back of the building as fire trucks and ambulances began to arrive. By this time tomorrow, Henry Kramer, Wall Street guru, would be officially 'dead' and Hank Cramer would build a new life and making preparations to find his way to Ipswich, Massachusetts.

* * *

(1) Kramer was a priest of the Dominican order, also known as blackfriars because they wore black cloaks over white robes, as well as the hounds of God…perhaps because they were so intent on rooting out heresy and witchcraft. I'll admit that I did not do as much research into the Inquisition as I probably should have, but there is only so much work I'm willing or able to put into any one project right now.

(2) I don't actually believe Taylor or Reid would ever have followed Chase; they may not have been as close to Caleb as Pogue, but they were loyal and capable of thinking for themselves. I just think that Chase may have seen them that way.

(3) In The Covenant graphic novel, Gormen trains the boys when they turn 13 in the use of their powers, and tells them that they will have a red spell that is "Unique. Individual. Unbreakable." I won't be including much from the manga because I, quite frankly, did not care for it, but I like the idea of a red spell. I really liked the way kos_mos607 has included the idea in the fics The Crimson Ritual and The Lords of Ipswich (on and the covenant slash livejournal), so I'll be doing something similar here.

So, the prologue was really just to set up the story and introduce the new villain. If you've already started this story, you may notice I've edited this chapter since I originally posted it. Again, sorry Chase fans. I felt like I needed a bigger bad. Hank will have some elements of Chase, though; when he absorbed his soul, he absorbed some of his personality traits—plus, he looks like him (at least part of the time). So, in a way, Chase isn't really dead, just kind of somebody else, if that makes any sense.

I'm looking for input now. I have a basic storyline down, but I'm not sure about a few details. I haven't decided whether or not to make Tyler and Reid a couple. They certainly seemed like a plausible couple in the movie, but it might be a little too much, pairing all the boys up. What do you think? (No slash-haters, please; this story **will **be slash, so if you don't like, don't read).

Secondly—I've already decided what careers Pogue, Caleb, and Tyler will have, but I'm not sure about Reid. He should be successful, but I'm not sure what future career suits him. Any ideas?

Anybody have any questions? Was anything about the prologue unclear? I will explain more about witches, wizards, and sorcerers in the future, but you should have some idea of what the differences are now, so let me know if not and I can be clearer in the future.

Any comments or critiques (that are not flames) are welcomed!

~Surrealgreen


	2. Gently Smiling Jaws

**Gently Smiling Jaws**

_How doth the little crocodile_

_Improve his shining tail,_

_And pour the waters of the Nile_

_On every golden scale!_

_How cheerfully he seems to grin,_

_How neatly spreads his claws,_

_And welcomes little fishes in_

_With gently smiling jaws!_

_ How Doth The Little Crocodile_

_ Alice in Wonderland_

_ Lewis Carroll_

_Witch: A magic user who is able to use raw natural power. The most powerful of all magic users, witches are also the most vulnerable to the effects of their own power. They generally live short, intense lives, and some scholars theorize that witches are elemental creatures trapped in human form, destined to be reborn into the same coven* throughout the ages. (also known as a 'true' witch to distinguish from hedge witches, druids, or other magic users often termed 'witches'. True witches are far more powerful than these lesser common witches)_

_*Coven: A term commonly used to describe a group of witches. The term when applied to true witches implies more than simply an organization or group; true witches form covens that are family; pack. True witches are intensely loyal to their coven and will go to extraordinary lengths to protect it. While most magic-users are solitary creatures, a witch can only thrive when with his coven, and will go mad if cast out._

_--excerpts from The Compendium of Witchcraft (1)_

Ascending, Pogue found, was sort of like being born—pain and terror and the inability to turn back or avoid it. Inevitability made reality. When Pogue finished ascending, he'd been a new person, as different from his former self as a babe from the partially formed fetus in its mother's womb. And that seemed an apt comparison, for he felt as if he'd never before been quite whole. The world had seemed somehow more alive, more real; there was no longer any distance between things, just air surrounding everything, touching everything and everyone—it was as if he'd been skinned, every nerve exposed to reality. He sometimes wondered if the others felt the same sort of connection, or it was simply the result of being an Air witch; for some reason, no matter how close the coven was, they were shy of discussing their powers—perhaps a side effect of the centuries old covenant of silence that held their families in check. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that each of them found themselves beholden to different elements; how could one translate the ephemeral, impish song of Air to the wistful melody of Water, the frenetic wailing of Fire, the solemn hymn of Earth?

It was unusual, in a coven of four, to have all of the elements represented; in their fathers' time, there had been an Earth, two Waters, and Fire. The full compliment of elemental powers made their coven unusually strong—not that it seemed to matter much in a world that delegated magic to the realm of fairy tales and movies. Still, there had been a bond between the coven ever since they ascended that every bit as real and powerful as the bond to their individual elements. Pogue could no more live without his coven than he could without the breath in his lungs. Gormen said it was because they were a true coven, with all elements represented, that their bond was so strong; the strongest to come from the families in centuries. The old wizard did not seem to know if this strength was a good thing or a bad thing. He said he tasted a change in the future, a change that would forever alter the fate of the families.

Pogue did not fear change, not anymore. The Air was ever-changing, ever-moving, whether the movement was the furious force of a tornado, or the subtle currents present on even the stillest of days—and he reveled in it. He could not imagine any other element would suit him so, fulfill needs he hadn't even realized he had. The need to laugh, to dance, to fly. Somehow, it seemed he'd always been searching for flight without realizing it, a bird in a cage of social contracts. He'd never connected his love of speed, the joy he found in racing his bike until its engine whined and it threatened to shake apart, with the joy of flight until _after _his ascension. Now that he'd found his wings he could not remember how he'd ever lived without them.

With his ascension also came his red spell, his unique power; the one power that would not use up his life. Foresight (2). Prophetic dreams and painful visions that gave him glimpses of possible futures. Foresight was a powerful "gift", but a dangerous and difficult one, as well. His visions and dreams were sadly non-specific, confusing and confounding. He dreamed in omens, in symbols, in signs and portents. Figuring out what his dreams and visions meant was possible, sometimes, but never easy, and most of the time Pogue would really never know if he was right. It was paradoxical, you see, knowing the future, for knowing the future automatically changed it; unless the future was supposed to turn out that way because you did know about it. Then not knowing the future would change it. Pondering on it quickly became a twisted maze of what-if's and maybes, with no concrete answers. Pogue did not so much mind the ambiguity of it, as the futility, for until the event or events happened, he could not be sure he interpreted his visions correctly. And sometimes they never seemed to come about at all, leaving him to wonder if something changed the future (for what he saw was merely one possible future, not yet certain), if it had come to pass and he'd simply not seen it, or if he'd just misinterpreted the vision all together. A person could quickly go mad dwelling on the possibilities, so Pogue didn't. At least, not much.

Over the months following his ascension Reid, then Tyler, ascended well. It didn't really surprise anyone that tempestuous Reid was a Fire witch, and intuitive Tyler seemed well-suited to his element of Water. Stolid Caleb was already well settled into his role of the Earth witch. And thus a true coven was born. Their powers seemed to almost cleanse them, remaking them into truer forms of themselves. Doubt and uncertainty faded as they became aware and accepting of themselves and each other. Their bond grew closer, and they became ever more sure in their powers. Like being born, Pogue found, ascending changed _everything_.

* * *

_--June 20__th__, 2012_

Sweat dripped slowly down Pogue's face under a protective mask as the scent of molten metal filled the air. His hair had long since become matted to his head from the intense heat radiating from the welding torch that he wielded so carefully in hands that were sweat-slicked underneath thick gloves. To combat the heat he wore a thin tank top that was plastered to his leanly muscled torso, but it did little good, and the waistband of his worn jeans was damp from perspiration. Pogue knew that he needed a break soon or he'd become dehydrated, but he was almost finished.

He'd been working on his current project for weeks now. A fantastic bird in flight, wings stretching nearly six feet across, stood before him cast in bronze as he carefully welded feathers made from copper wire onto its frame. The feathers were small and thin and required a delicate precision to attach to the frame without being melted into lumps. But it would all be worth it in the end, when the creature was fully clothed in an array of golds, yellows, reds, and browns created from the contrasting metals (3). When Pogue was finished, the statue would be sent to the dedicated patron who'd commissioned it.

With a sigh, Pogue turned off his torch and stepped back from the statue. Bad enough that the heavy mask always truncated his peripheral vision, his eyes were getting blurry, a sure sign that it was time for him to stop for the day. Pogue had never been a particularly patient person, but he'd found that he could spend hours working on a project without feeling the time pass, sometimes to the point that he over-did it. As much as he hated to stop before he was finished, Pogue had found through experience that continuing to work when he was exhausted or dehydrated would only result in flaws in his work. He would have to finish tomorrow.

Pogue set his torch down on a nearby workbench and pulled the hot, heavy mask and gloves off with relieve. A breeze trickled in through the open doorway and ran cool fingers through his hair, bringing a smile to his face.

"Are you done for today?"

Pogue's art studio was, at one time, a large barn that housed horses, cows, and farm equipment. Most of the inner walls of the barn had been cleared out to leave a large open space for him to work—he needed room for some of his larger pieces, and it was essential that nothing flammable be nearby to catch a spark from the welding torch—but outside the barn looked much like it had when it was first constructed decades ago, complete with oversized barn doors designed to move horses and wagons rather than people. Pogue tended to leave the barn doors open when he worked to encourage a breeze and allow natural light to enter the barn, and, consequently, it was generally easy for Caleb to sneak up on him when he was working.

"Yeah. Getting tired," Pogue responded, letting loose his red spell so that he could sense his lover.

"Do you know what time it is?" Caleb asked in that voice that said he was trying not to act like Pogue's mother, but really, really wanted to.

Pogue noticed for the first time that the sunlight had turned a burnt orange color and the shadow cast by his lover slid across the floor in a long line. Shit, it was late. They would be late.

"I can guess." Pogue rubbed his hand over his face and shoved it through his damp hair. "Let me grab a shower." Late or not, Twoberry Gorman would not accept Pogue showing up smelling like—well, like he'd just spent the entire day welding metal.

Caleb stopped him as he passed with a warm hand on his arm—a large hand with scholar's fingers tapered and soft, so unlike Pogue's own scabbed, calloused hands. The hands of a man who spent his days behind a desk.

"Pogue, you did remember to eat lunch?" There was that worry again. Caleb tended to feel like he had to protect the members of his coven, even from themselves. Sometimes Pogue found it endearing; other times, he found it irritating; mostly, it was just _Caleb_.

"Caleb, I'm a big boy. You don't have to worry about me. Besides, did _you_ eat lunch?" As the newest, rawest Deputy District Attorney of Essex County, Caleb got the cases that no one else wanted—the cases that could not be won, the cases that would break your heart. But his fiercely competitive nature, so often hidden beneath a calm exterior, would let him accept nothing but the best from himself, and it wasn't uncommon for him to work straight through lunch. Since becoming the DDA, Caleb had astounded his superiors by having a much higher conviction rate than he, by all rights, should have—but he put in the hours to attain it.

"That's different."

"Really?" Pogue replied with a teasing smile, breaking the tension. Pogue had always been the peace-keeper of the coven, quick to offer a joke or a sympathetic ear (3). He tended to be the peace-keeper in their relationship, as well, though he could be as stubborn as Caleb.

"I spend my days sitting at a desk in my air-conditioned office, not sweating in a hot barn beside a welding torch!"

"And I spend my days playing with metal and clay, not pouring through case files trying to get a hopeless conviction on a case that makes me want to cry. My job may be more physical, but yours is more stressful." Pogue pointed out reasonably.

Caleb had high standards. In a way, it was a good thing—he always aimed for the best and usually achieved it. But it also left him with a tendency to expect too much from himself, and it was Pogue's job to make sure he didn't crash when he occasionally failed.

"Tell you what. You make that shower quick and I'll make us a snack and we can eat a little something before we have to go."

"Deal." Pogue gave his lover that big, delighted smile that made his nose crinkle and Caleb smiled in return as he snaked a hand behind Pogue's head and pulled him in for a kiss. A sweet kiss with soft lips and hard teeth and a hint of slick tongue.

"Don't start something you can't finish," Pogue warned jokingly, huskily, giving Caleb a look that let him know that Pogue was all too willing to 'finish' things.

"Go get your shower," Caleb replied reluctantly but ever responsible.

It was midsummer, the night of the summer solstice, one of the two points in the year when the sun appeared to stand still, if only for a few moments. Of course, they wouldn't see it this year, as the full solstice wouldn't occur until around 11 pm, but the ritual surrounding the solstice didn't require them to see it, just know that it happened. Gormen taught them that the solstice and equinox rituals were the most important to magic users because they brought them closer to nature, from which their powers sprang. Balance, he cautioned, was key. Balance between the elements, balance between the selfish desires of man and the ethereal powers of the witch. It was how one learned to harness the power, rather than become its slave. Considering that Gormen was over two hundred years old and had survived several generations of the Ipswich Coven, his words carried weight; on the other hand, he was a wizard, not a witch, and had never known the soul-deep draw of the power.

Still, Caleb respected the old man, who had probably been more of a father to the sons than the previous coven. Certainly Caleb's father had not been there for him, quite literally, since he was a young child. And, though William Danvers had been the only member of the previous coven to fully succumb to the power, the other fathers had been little better. They'd drowned their need for the power in other addictions. Pogue's father had been a drunkard, using the bitter burn of liquor to blunt the sharp pangs of power-lust—a choice that eventually led the death of both himself and his wife when he'd driven into a tree one night, blood alcohol well above the legal limit. Reid's father was addicted to sex, a failing that left Reid's gold-digging mother bitter and closed off, and his father cold and distant, more interested in his latest conquest than his son. As for Mr. Simms…he was nominally the best of the fathers. Rather than turning to drink or sex, he'd turned inward. He was a scholar, and a kindly man who never said a harsh word to anyone. But he also never showed an interest in anyone or anything other than his books. Oh, if Tyler went to him, he'd talk with the boy, give him some attention. But he never volunteered affection or even interest—a cold sort of kindness that drove Tyler's mother away when he was only 7.

Sadly, of all their parents, the best by far had been Evelyn, who, if she was as much the drunkard as Mr. and Mrs. Parry, made sure to let her child know how much she loved him, and showered affection on the other sons as well. She had become one of the pillars of their lives, and Gormen the other. He was cranky and rude and given to giving them sharp slaps on their bottoms when they back-talked (an annoying habit that had not disappeared simply because they had gotten older), but he was _there_, and he was interested, and he helped them. Caleb far preferred Gormen's example to that of his father.

In the kitchen, Caleb made sandwiches for himself and Pogue, trying to ignore the sound of running water. It was all too easy for him to imagine that water running over Pogue, through his long hair and over broad shoulders, down lean abs to narrow little hips and long lean legs… He knew that body intimately, yet never seemed to grow tired of it. Growing up, he'd never imagined he would end up with Pogue. Now, he couldn't remember why-ever not. It was so obvious, so easy, so natural. So deep, much deeper and more meaningful than any of his other romantic interludes. Caleb remembered believing that he was truly in love with Sarah, but that relationship had never even come close to what he shared with Pogue, a love that was consuming and passionate and a bit terrifying at times, but also deeply comfortable, like a well-worn pair of jeans he could slip into at the end of the day. Whenever Caleb starting thinking too much and became afraid of the intensity of his feelings, he would remember that this was _Pogue_. Pogue, who was wild and reckless and beautiful; laid-back and friendly, but also shy; who knew Caleb better than he knew himself, quite literally thanks to his red spell. Who had been his best friend since before he knew what a best friend was.

Pogue was given to long, hot showers, an indulgence he refused to give up, citing too many quick gym showers in his life already. Even his version of a quick shower took longer than it ought to, at least in Caleb's mind. Caleb normally didn't mind (in fact, frequently enjoyed joining him), but tonight it was going to make them even later for the ritual, and Gormen had a tendency to play nasty tricks when pissed (easy for a wizard who specialized in casting illusions and glamours). And Caleb was _tired_; it had been a long day at work, and the solstice ritual would start early evening and take all night. Luckily, he had the next day off, but still…making it through the night would be tough. As always, the temptation to use his power and erase his fatigue was strong. He sometimes wondered if it was his ascension that made his power so tempting, or that final battle with Chase. Seeing what using did to the other boy had been humbling, but using so much of his own power in the battle, and _winning_…it was like a crack addict seeing what the drug did to other users, but unable to beat his own habit.

When Pogue emerged from the shower, hair dripping but otherwise ready to go, he saw Caleb's pensive look and felt his fatigue and distraction. Sometimes, Caleb thought too damned much. Pogue knew how to deal with that, though. He walked up to his lover, placed one hand on his cheek and the other on his side, and leaned up to kiss him…softly, softly at first. Just rubbing soft lips against soft lips, reveling in the feeling of his own full mouth against Caleb's even fuller, pouty mouth, the slight rasp of stubble. Suck in that bottom lip, lick it, graze it with teeth just hard enough…wait for the mouth to open, then let his tongue slip in like a thief. The warm taste of coffee and that indescribably taste that was _Caleb_, earthy and strong and mellow. Caleb was like rising bread, fresh cut grass, or fresh-turned soil, and always gave off the sense of summery life. When Caleb's tongue entered his own mouth, he sucked gently. Nothing too hard, or they'd never stop. Just enough to turn Caleb's brain to mush and shut his mind down for a few minutes. To get endorphins and dopamine pumping and make him forget his worries, forget the power. He felt his lover's problems melt away under a barrage of lust and affection, and allowed it to wash him away for a few minutes.

Reluctantly, Pogue pulled back, letting Caleb come back to reality.

"We need to go," Caleb murmured, still a bit fuzzy minded. Pogue didn't mind. He loved knowing that he could do that to his lover, who was usually so reserved.

"Let's eat first. Come on, it will only take a few minutes."

"We'll be late."

"Reid will be later. He always is."

It was true, in large part because Reid enjoyed pissing Gormen off. On a deeper level, Pogue expected he was waiting to see how hard he'd have to push before Gormen abandoned him, the same way he used to with Caleb. Since their ascension, Reid had become more secure in his bond with the coven, but still had difficulty trusting anyone else, even Gormen.

"I made sandwiches; let's eat on the way." Caleb's sensible compromise.

"Then I guess we're not riding the Ducati," Pogue smiled cheekily at Caleb's answering look.

A half hour later, the two arrived at the manor-house moments before Reid. Tyler's newest car, a hybrid Audi that was much more eco-friendly than his hummer, was already there. Reid's fire-engine red corvette pulled up close behind them.

Reid had grown up tall and handsome, though his pale skin and hair made him look deceptively fragile at times. People had compared his pale blue eyes to ice, but Pogue knew that they were more like blue flame…Reid ran hot, not cold. And his hot temper and love of action belied his apparent fragility. Even back in high school, people had underestimated Reid, assumed that he was weaker than he truly was. The baggy clothes he preferred didn't help, because they hid the strong body underneath. Perhaps that was why he'd bedeviled Aaron Abbott so much, a pre-emptive strike against the sharp-tongued bully who was actually much shorter than him (4). These days, fewer people underestimated him; he'd grown into his attitude, grown into a more mature version of the spitfire he'd been.

"You two are laaate!" He sang out. Being late may have been a near-constant thing for Reid, and not unusual for Pogue, but was nearly unheard of for Caleb. "Pogue must be rubbing off on you—or was it the other way around this time?" He gave a cheesy version of a lecherous leer, letting his gaze roam over his friends.

"Reid!" Caleb was flustered (Reid's plan worked!), but Pogue just smiled back. He could appreciate Reid's quirky humor, and knew better than to let the other man get to him. Not that he did, often; the Fire and Air elements were the wildest, the most untamed and, while Reid's emotions often ran to the more volatile end of the scale (whereas Pogue's were more easy-going and impish), both young men were tempestuous and unpredictable. Reid's element of fire suited him well, for he'd always had a 'fiery' disposition, full of passion and life and courage, with a mean temper and a tendency toward pranks. His loyalty to the coven was unquestionable, but his love of pranks and jokes could make things uncomfortable at times.

"You'll never know," Pogue joked right back, taking the sting out of Reid's joke. Caleb was always a little too stiff.

"And none of you will ever want to sit down again if you don't get your asses downstairs now!" Gormen's sharp voice cut through the air unexpectedly, and instantly all three men shared a guilty look that would have been more appropriate on the 13-year-old boys they'd been than the adults they were—and he'd have done it, too.

They rushed down the stairs to the subbasement of the old manor house that had once been the home of the Putnam family. When John Putnam was killed, rumors began to circulate about the once-opulent and envied Putnam Manor, rumors of dark rituals and lingering spirits. Most people had been afraid to move into the home where a man had congress with the devil and bewitched innocents into doing the same, afraid of the remnants of the evil that supposed permeated the manor; even today, the house was believed to be haunted. The remaining four members of the coven, who knew that evil had not truly touched the manor, had simply been reluctant to have their names any more connected to Putnam, and the witch trials, than necessary. The church had quickly claimed all of Putnam's worldly goods—to be 'cleansed', of course—and the house had gone to seed. After a time, the remaining four families had carefully and quietly returned to the manor; or, more specifically, to the secret room under the manor that once housed Putnam's most prized possessions. They remade the room into their ritual chamber, hid their texts and herbs and talismans and, of course, the Book of Damnation in the house that had become as anathema to the other villagers as a plague house. A few homemade wind chimes cemented the legend that the house was haunted, helping to keep the locals away. With the evidence of their own witchcraft hidden away, the families hoped that they themselves would not be accused of heresy.

What began as a way to protect the coven, soon became tradition (much like the covenant of silence itself). A place the covens could meet in secrecy, and would always be reminded of the price of exposure; a haven and a warning. A place where they could remember where they came from, and reflect on their futures and the futures of their lines. A place where they could be their truest selves without having to worry about wandering eyes, even the eyes of their loved ones. A place they could be safe. Eventually, as time marched on and people became less superstitious, the Danvers family bought the home, and maintained it as a "historical site" so that it could be as it had been since the witch trials.

By the time the current coven was born, of course, real witch trials were a thing of the past. Few people believed in magic anymore, and even if they did, being a witch was perfectly legal in the United States. Still, the families knew that one could never be too safe. No matter how civilized man seemed, it was always a thin veneer ready to be stripped away at the slightest provocation, shredded like a smiling paper mask to show the snarl underneath. They lived with the ever-present possibility that people would realize what they were, and come after them with a vengeance, just like in the past. Only instead of "she soured the cows' milk", it would be "he made my car break down," "he made me lose my job!" There was never any shortage of problems for which people wanted someone to blame.

To the current coven, the ritual chamber was a place of mystery and magic, where the outside world of science and instant gratification through gadgetry seemed far, far away. A place lit by candles and filled with ancient texts, the scent of leather and paper, and just a bit of mustiness. It was one of those special places that somehow seemed immune to time's corrosive touch, a special kind of magic to those who were all too aware of the touch of time. The soft flickering lights brightened as they entered the room and more candles lit, revealing the rune-covered walls and the round table in the center of the room that housed the Book of Damnation.

The Book was more than just a record of births and deaths; it was the book of shadows, the grimoire, of the Ipswich coven. True grimoires were more precious in some circles than their weight in gold, for they held the secrets of witches, the secrets to the power, the secrets of nature herself. Each book told the histories of its coven, and even the names given the books revealed the shadowy truth behind the witches who used them; the Book of Damnation spoke of the desperation and terror that gripped the original Ipswich coven, the belief that they were somehow damned even in life, to be so hunted. Unfortunately unraveling the riddles that helped hide the secrets of a grimoire was not an easy task, even to its own coven, for witches usually wrote in code to hide their secrets from the grasping hands and minds of those who would steal their powers; and so much knowledge had been lost in the inquisitions and the witch hunts.

Around the table sat four low stools, one for each of the cardinal directions. Caleb took his seat in the North, the seat of Earth; Pogue to the East, the seat of Air; Reid to the South, the seat of Fire; and Tyler was already sitting to the West, the seat of Water. Before they ascended, the boys took different turns in the seats, but now they formed a true quartered circle, achieved full balance. They each went to their seats without hesitation, a formation that just felt right.

Gormen remained on the stairs, close enough to watch, but not so close that he broke the circle. Sometimes Pogue caught a glint of envy in Gorman's eyes when he watched them in the circle, especially over the last few years. Wizards, unlike witches, tended to be very long-lived, but they paid for their longevity with solitude. The cliché of the cranky, somewhat insane old codger of a wizard was, like all clichés, based on truth—for wizards outlived everyone they knew (save other wizards), and more than one had gone mad from it. It was a lonely life, and Pogue could only wonder what had bound Gormen to the families so completely that he stayed in Ipswich generation after generation; how it felt to watch each generation of the coven age and die, most before their times. Sometimes Pogue felt like Gorman hated the families, as if he were bound to serve them against his will. But at other times, he believed that Gorman cared about him and the other sons more than their fathers ever had.

Gormen had been overseeing rituals for the current coven since they were 13 years old. It had surprised the boys, at first, to know that he expected them to meet regularly so that they could perform the rights, something that their fathers had certainly never done as far as they knew, but Gormen had insisted. He warned them that their father's ways of trying to deal with their powers failed because they lacked balance; rather than trying to be both man and witch, they tried to be one or the other. He told them that the rites helped to maintain balance, and would hopefully keep them from following in their fathers' footsteps. It was as much philosophy as magic, a holistic approach to life. Caleb had taken the old man's words to heart, perhaps because he had to watch his own father wither before his very eyes, and had insisted that the others do so as well. Even rebellious Reid could not resist when Caleb had cried out, with tears in his eyes, that he could not watch them fade, too.

Maybe there was something to the rites, as Gormen maintained. After all, they were all now 25, none of them addicted to the power or anything else; all of them successful and happy. They were family, and the most stable coven to be produced by the families in several generations, according to Gormen. Even Evelyn had slowed down on the drinking and stopped giving the sons tragic eyes as they had gotten older without becoming addicted, without the aging.

Each coven had its own tradition for how to start a ritual; how to call the quarters. The Ipswich Coven started with the North, Caleb's seat. The Earth seat. Earth was the element of stillness, silence; the element of transformation, birth and death. The element of skill and senses. It began and ended the circle. East was Pogue's seat, the seat of Air. Air was the element of beginnings and intellect, of intelligence and childlike wonder. It was the second element called by the Ipswich coven. South was Reid's seat, the seat of Fire. Fire was the element of passion, courage, and lust. The third element called by the coven. And finally, West, Water, Tyler's seat. The seat of intuition and insight, calm and maturity. Even though Tyler was the youngest of the sons, his seat suited him.

Tyler had aged well since his ascension. He still had that boyish charm, with just a hint of shyness, but had grown into a man; grown more self-assured. A bit taller, a bit broader in the shoulders, with the same pale, pretty skin and mink-dark hair, and eyes the color of the sea on a cloudy day. If he still had the tendency to fade into the background, drown out by Caleb's indomitable will, Reid's firespark temper and mischievous bent, Pogue's vivacious playfulness, it was not because he lacked confidence…it was because he chose to do so, to observe and wait for his moment. It was easy to underestimate Tyler, but the coven knew that still waters ran deep (quite literally, in the water witch's case), and when he wanted to be, he was as much a driving force as any of them.

As the ritual began, Pogue let his mind drift. This particular ritual involved a lot of chanting, but it was fairly simple and repetitive after a time, and these rituals took hours. The first time Pogue had let his attention wander during a ritual, he'd found himself drifting, floating calmly as a leaf on a summer's breeze, lulled by the chant and soothed by the sense of the power flowing through him, for once soft and easy rather than the raging storm it normally was. He'd never before felt that kind of peace, and somehow, despite the length of the ritual, had been refreshed and energized at the end of it all. Before he'd always finished a ritual he'd been worn out and rung dry, with barely the strength left to make it up the stairs. When he'd looked up and found Gormen's knowing eyes on him, he'd fully expected to be flayed by the man's sharp tongue. But Gormen clapped him on the back and congratulated him for being the first member of the coven to achieve a meditation state. It had been a unique point of pride in Pogue's life, for he was rarely the first to do anything in his coven. Caleb was the eldest and the leader, and was usually first at the important stuff. He took his role as the eldest son seriously, after all. Tyler had inherited his father's scholarly nature, and generally led the pack in anything academic. Reid—well, Reid was no more scholarly or driven than Pogue, but he did tend to push the envelope and was almost as fiercely competitive as Caleb, so every now and then he'd push himself to the front of the group. But the ritual meditation was one area where Pogue's more lackadaisical approach to life served him well, for meditation came easy to him. The others found it much harder to calm their minds, and Caleb the hardest of all.

Since Pogue's ascension, meditating during the rituals had become even easier. Tonight felt as though the instant they began chanting, he sensed the air in the room a hundredfold more intense, warmed by the candles and cooled by the earth floor, trailing around the coven, breathed into their lungs and out again, touching everything with curiosity and wonder. He felt Tyler still across from him and knew he'd too, managed to achieve the ritual state. Reid took a bit longer—he was not one made to sit still and just feel things; he preferred action. Finally, Caleb managed to close out the horrors of his day and still his sense of responsibility until he, too, was in the proper state. Then the ritual truly began.

For all the time they took, the Ipswich coven's rituals were fairly simple. As true witches, they didn't need to burn herbs or draw symbols, they just needed to chant and meditate, to feel their powers, let themselves become one with their elements. Pogue suspected that the chanting wasn't necessary at all, simply a mantra to help them attain the proper state of mind more quickly. Once there, they could funnel their powers and channel them, calming the intense raw fury of the Power and releasing some of its energy, leaving them all calmer and more centered for weeks, even months after.

This night was different. Pogue felt it the moment his mind began to drift. It was as if he was connected to the other four by an electric current that pumped raw energy between them. He felt as each of the sons fell into trance, felt them as if he _was_ them, could sense their wonder and unease. When Caleb at last joined them, the circle was whole and perfect, and it had truly begun.

The power started low in his belly, a visceral heat that was lust, but also so much more. It was love and fear and life and _power_. The feeling built to a rough crescendo before trailing up his torso like fire up a trail of gasoline, running down to his fingertips and toes, and up to the very crown of his head. It built behind his eyes and ate through, painting the world in colors Pogue could not describe; colors he'd never seen before, colors that did not usually exist within the range of human vision. And Pogue saw…everything. Texture and color and heat and movement and stillness. He felt it, too, and heard it and smelled it. But mostly he felt the others.

In that moment they were all brothers and lovers and friends, and something so intimate that no words could define it. He felt Tyler's joy, Caleb's awe, Reid's thrill, as strongly as his own. After a few moments, he realized that their powers were connected as well.

From Tyler, he felt the water in the walls, mingled with his own element, in their bodies, dripping through the ground around them. And the empathy, Tyler's red spell; the ability to feel the emotions of others. From Reid, he felt the flickering candles, the warmth in the air, the potential for fire running through all of them…and the telepathy, their thoughts ringing through the air in melodic, overlapping whispers; Reid's red spell. From Caleb, he felt the deep calm of the earth, the verdant life of the trees and plant; and the very atoms surrounding them, waiting to move at his command; his red spell was telekinesis. Pogue's own red spell flashed images in front of him so quickly he could not tell what they were, and he did not have the concentration to investigate. And from Gormen, he heard/felt/saw triumph as a carefully calculated risk paid off—but Pogue was too distracted to look deeper, because the powers—all of them, everything—began to spiral outward into the world at large.

A storm was brewing in Ipswich, the wind blowing with fierce abandon, water collecting heavy in the clouds. The scent of ozone rent the air as fire lashed out in long strokes of lightening. The earth trembled in response, excited as the other elements, and the rocks and trees and cliffs jutted into the air proudly, piercing the sky as a lover. Sex was too tame, to mundane a word to describe the dance of the elements as they built up like waves to crest with flashes of light and sound and movement, before falling again in mutual surrender, over and over and over. _Caleb/Pogue/Reid/Tyler _gasped at the pleasure. Maybe they moaned, maybe they sighed, maybe they screamed—they could not tell, because their bodies seemed so very, very far away. Weak, flimsy things that could not truly hold them. And for a few precious moments, they were free.

They were everything, everywhere. They were pain and pleasure and sensation. They were the Earth and the Sky and the Water and the Fire and the grass and trees and animals. Time stood still and waited for them, kinder than they ever dreamed it could be. And still it built; everything built, anything built, _they_ built…grew louder, fiercer, colder, hotter, stronger, weaker, too too much. Too much. The center could not hold. The pleasure/pain peaked sharply, and then there was darkness.

* * *

Pogue dreamed.

_The hunter stalked through the woods carefully, stepping around sticks and leaves, silent and deadly. His thick, dark fur ruffled silently in the breeze, and his muzzle quivered and he scented prey among the trees. Carefully, oh so carefully, the hunter worked his way around the prey until he approached them from downwind, making sure they could not catch his scent. Birds and even the insects fell silent as he passed them by, a quiet killer with blood on his mind. He snarled silently, displaying fangs as long and sharp as knives._

_The prey turned out to be deer. A small, strange heard of four young bucks. The dark green one was the largest, with the most prongs on his horns, and he stood at the far side of the small clearing that housed them proudly, looking out for danger, never realizing that he was looking the wrong way. The red deer stood beside the green, uneasy as well, but no more able to tell why he felt the sense of danger. Its feet danced with nervous energy. The two bucks shuddered, and shivered, and stood stock still—but their quivering noses and delicate ears could pick up no sign of danger of the danger they sensed. _

_The blue deer was the most vulnerable, it's trust in its brothers (for they were brothers, Pogue knew) so absolute that it did not look for danger itself. Instead it calmly fed on the delicate cloves of the forest, letting its own sense of peace comfort the two agitated deer. And the golden deer slept. Its legs and ears twitched gently as it dreamed frightful dreams, but it was unable to move, to cry out the danger. The golden deer felt the danger, too, and knew what it was, knew that the hunter approached, drawing ever nearer. But it could not wake up. For all it's knowledge it was useless. _

_The blue deer died first, even as it tried to soothe its brothers. It's slender neck was shredded and its vertebra snapped before it could register the hunter's arrival. And still the golden deer slept. _

_The red deer, maddened by its brother's murder, charged recklessly. The hunter contemptuously lashed out with clawed paws, spilling the red deer's belly open and breaking his legs. He squealed in outraged agony, but was too injured to do anything but fall down and wait to die. And still the golden deer slept. _

_The green deer bellowed out rage and pain and grief, but it was wiser than its red brother. It placed itself between the golden deer and the hunter, warily watching its adversary. When the hunter approached, the green deer feinted left, feinted right. It lashed out with hoof and horn, and it did damage to the hunter. But not enough. The hunter was fat on the blue deer's blood and the red deer's pain, and danced with the green deer until it made the mistake of turning it's back on him. He broke it's hind legs and crushed it's back. It tried to drag itself between the hunter and the golden deer with its front legs, but the hunter contemptuously swept them out from underneath it, leaving the green deer alive, but dying slowly mere feet from the equally damaged red deer. And still the golden deer slept._

_And then the golden deer was all that was left. It slept still, even though inside it was screaming in pain/terror/grief/remorse. It could not move, could not wake. The hunter sank it's teeth, slowly, carefully into the golden deer's throat, a move designed to bleed it slowly. At the first touch of the hunter's tooth, the golden deer awoke, but it was too late._

_Even as the golden deer opened its eyes, Pogue realized that _he_ was the golden deer. The hunter loomed large over him, and it was no longer a mysterious monster; it was a man. It was Chase…and yet, not Chase. Pogue tried to scream, but his voice was gone, destroyed by the hunter's teeth. Chase-not-Chase gave a very gentle, kind smile, macabre with the gore still caught in his teeth…and then the pain started._

Pogue woke up screaming. The warm arms around him, holding him close to a warm body, seemed alien in his terror, and he struck out mindlessly. Too frightened to use his powers, he struck out like a child, hitting randomly with open hands and clammy skin.

"Pogue!" It was the voice that stopped him. That got him to open his eyes and realize that the arms belonged to Caleb. He stilled, but his heart continued to flutter like a terrified bird.

"Pogue?" Caleb questioned.

Pogue looked around and realized they were still in the ritual room. He was surrounded by his brothers, gazing at him with worry; even Gormen looked disturbed.

"What happened?" the old man asked.

"Give him a minute!" Caleb warned, his strong arms pulling Pogue tighter to his chest. Pogue's own arms wrapped around Caleb's waist, finally returning his embrace. Pogue was bit surprised to feel moisture on his face, and realized he'd been crying. He hadn't cried since he'd learned that Caleb planned to face Chase on his own, all those years ago. But that dream…that vision?

"If he's seen something, we need to know!"

"Did you see anything, Reid?" Tyler asked, distracting the wizard for a moment. If Reid could describe what Pogue had seen, he wouldn't have to. Unfortunately, it didn't work like that.

"No—my telepathy's like hearing words. Pogue's visions are in images. All I got was a vague sense of something bad. Hell, you got more than me." It was true—Tyler's empathy would have picked up the complicated mix of negative emotions, but that wouldn't help him figure out what the dream-vision meant.

"We're being hunted." Pogue's quiet whisper rang out as if he had shouted. "And we're all going to die."

* * *

(1) I'm totally making this stuff up. Consider everything from _The Compendium of Witchcraft_ a plot bunny.

(2) I was originally planning on totally taking Pogue, Reid, and Tyler's red spells from Kos-Mos607 (don't worry, she gave me permission). Her stories _The Crimson Ritual _and _The Lords of Ipswich_ are Caleb/Pogue and Tyler/Reid, and she has a neat plot to go with—so if you like those pairings. Check it out here: .net/s/3179835/1/The_Crimson_Ritual

However, I had this big 'elements' part of the story, and so I decided to use powers that worked with the element I'd chosen for each character. For example, Pogue is an air witch, and the air element is associated with intellect—foresight seemed appropriate. Tyler is the water witch, and his element is associated with intuition, so I'll make him the empathy. Reid is the fire witch (of course), associated with passion and courage—telepathy felt right for him, and I figured he'd get a kick out of being able to read other's thoughts; and Caleb's the earth witch, associated with strength and the senses, so telekinesis works because its like his strength extended beyond his body.

(3) All right, I honestly don't know that much about sculpting, but casting is a method wherein in an artist makes a mold and pours hot metal, usually bronze, into the mold to let it harden. Welding is exactly what it sounds like—using a blow torch to weld pieces of metal into a final form. As far as I know, the two types of sculpting are not generally combined, but I could be wrong. I believe that cast sculptures are traditionally more realistic, while welded sculptures are often abstract. The needed skill sets are different, as well—castors need to be able to make their molds (usually made from ceramics which can handle very hot temperatures), which they then pour molten metal into. When the metal cools and hardens, the statue is made. Welders have to be able to use blow torches with precision and finesse. Though I doubt there is any easy way to sculpt, these two methods can be particularly dangerous since they involve handling molten metal. I like the idea of Pogue as an artist, but wanted to give him a career that would also allow him to work with his hands and requires a great deal of strength. Something kinda edgy and rough---and I just like to picture him working in that barn all hot and sweaty with his hair tied back and his shirt off .

(4) I know that the little description of the characters on the official site describes Tyler as the peace-keeper of the group, but in the actual movie I can easily think of 4 or 5 times Pogue played peace-keeper (seriously, I can list them) and not 1 time Tyler did. I'm basing the characters off of my interpretation of them as they are in the movie. I will include some of the official character traits to fill in the blank spots in the movie, but will ignore the parts that contradict the movie.

(5) I've seen a bunch of stuff in other fanfiction saying that so-and-so was the tallest, strongest, biggest, etc. Its kind of hard to compare the boys in the movie, because the camera angles kind of made whoever was closest look the tallest. But I've looked online for the heights of the actors, and according to , Steven Straight (Caleb) is 6'1"; Taylor Kitsch (Pogue) is 5'11; and Chace Crawford (Tyler) is 5'10. I haven't been able to find a height for Toby Hemingway (Reid), but if you watch the first swim scene where they're all standing next to each other (one of the few scenes without the weird angles), Caleb is clearly the tallest, Reid and Pogue look about the same size, and Tyler is just a little bit shorter. Pogue is the most cut, but Caleb is every bit as muscular, and Reid is either just as muscular or very close. Tyler is a _little_ less muscular than the others, but he ain't no weak little prissy boy. Probably sounds kind of creepy that I've spent so much time analyzing that scene, huh…but it really annoys me when others write Pogue as a big, dumb brute and Tyler or Reid as girly.

Ansemmesna: I really considered making Pogue a motorcycle racer, actually, but I want the boys to have something that will allow them to stay closer to home (I'll explain why in the next chapter). But that's the right direction—Reid needs something that will allow him to use his competitive edge, but I'm just not quite sure what. Thanks for the suggestion!

Jillinthehill: I completely agree. When I first started looking up Covenant fanfic, I was expecting Caleb/Pogue to be everywhere (they seemed so obvious to me), and was surprised that it was one of the lesser written pairings. Had to add my two cents, I guess 

Sam: Thanks for the high praise! I'm glad that the villain is coming off suitably villainly. OC villains can be so hard to write. I'm working on the next chapter now, so I'll hopefully have it up soon. Got stuck for a while, but I think I'm know where I'm going with it now.


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